He gave a short laugh and shook his head as he stared at the ground. “I shouldn’t.”
His eyes met mine. There was pain and loathing reflected in them. “You’re right, of course. You have no obligation.” The thought of walking to town, carrying my bags, having to leave in the dead of night with no light to guide my way, flitted through my head. It was my life and my choice. It was up to me to find a way. “Then I’ll say goodbye here, Deven,” I said with as much courage as I could muster. I had wanted my independence—well, here it was. I had expected it to feel more exhilarating than this, instead I felt unsettled, unsure.
“Wait.”
His voice caught me as I walked away.
“I will see that you get to where you’re going. I want him to know I’m keeping my eye on him. But if he’s not who he says he is, I’m putting you over my shoulder and hauling you back home.”
Tears leaked from my eyes as I squeezed them shut and bolted back to him, hugging his neck tight.
He quickly pried my arms away and held me at a distance.
“When do we leave?”
“I’m to meet him at his studio tomorrow at two in the afternoon,” I said.
“I’ll have the hansom ready at one-fifteen. I’ll leave it up to you what story you plan to fabricate this time. Good day, Miss Cartwright.”
I watched him walk away, his long-legged, determined stride putting distance between us as quickly as possible. And as I saw him disappear inside the barn, I prayed that I would not regret my choice.
I finished my chores as swiftly as I could the next day, and managed to get my bags out to the hansom where Deven waited. A tearful Amelia joined us a few moments later.
“Here, I want you to have this.” My cousin pressed a white lace doily into my hand. Along the edges were delicate yellow flowers with blue stitching. In the center, the same color ribbon wrapped around a bouquet of flowers.
“It’s beautiful, Amelia, thank you,” I said, holding back the niggling concern that I should reconsider what I was doing.
“Look here, I’ve stitched both of our initials. So you will remember our friendship. You know what they say, that daisies never forget.”
She hugged me tight and I purposely avoided looking at Deven as I held her, comforting her. “I’ll not be away forever, Amelia. When I’ve saved enough, made something of myself, we’ll go to the theater again.”
“If Mama and Papa allow it, Sara. Where will I write to you? How will I know where to find you?”
I gave her a slip of paper with the same address that was on Mr. Rodin’s card. “Here is where you can reach me. If you need me, send for me and I will come without delay.”
She sniffed, wiping her shiny red pert nose with her handkerchief, and nodded.
“Now stop crying, your face is mottled and Aunt Perdy will wonder what is troubling you.” I hugged her, kissing her cheek quick as I hurried into the carriage. The cab listed slightly as Deven made his way into the driver’s seat. With a snap of the reins, the mare in front of me jumped forward and the carriage sprang to life. I’d not told Amelia on purpose what excuse I’d given to my aunt in order to use the carriage, deciding the less she knew, the better.
Deven, on the other hand, was told that he was taking me to where I was to meet Lord Barrington, who would take me to the Barringtons’ cottage estate on the other side of town. I’d told Aunt Perdy that I was going to visit them to see how I got on with the children. I could see by his face that Deven was not happy to be part of the fabrication but, without quarrel, he complied, perhaps glad to be rid of me.
The coach pitched and rolled, mimicking the sensations in my stomach, as we entered the busy streets of London. More than once I took out Mr. Rodin’s card, checking the address again. Cheyne Walk. I scanned the neat row of brick houses along the long and narrow cobblestone street. Deven stopped the carriage a short distance from the front of the building. I peered out the window and saw that blocking the entrance was a large carriage. A handsome man, vaguely resembling Mr. Rodin, was assisting a beautiful woman with stark red hair into her seat. Several bags and a trunk lay on the ground as if they were preparing to travel or in the throes of moving. She wore an elegant traveling hat with a large black ostrich plume, the brim shadowing the details of her face.
A tap on the opposite window startled me and I turned to find Mr. Rodin, his charming smile greeting me. I unlatched the window, drawing it aside.
“Mr. Rodin, my apologies, I didn’t see you.”
“Good day, Miss Cartwright. I’m afraid I have some rather poor news of my own. As it turns out, today is not the best of days to meet. My cleaning lady is working today in the studio and—” he glanced over his shoulder “—my brother and his fiancée are leaving today.”
His gaze lingered on them for a moment, and I wondered if the woman had been a model. He cleared his throat and looked at me with a bright smile.
“Can you meet me at the Globe, say tomorrow night, around seven? I have something I wish to show you.”
“Mr. Rodin, I…”
“Of course, I understand if you’ve changed your mind.”
“No, no, I haven’t. I will be there…yes, I will be there.” I repeated with greater conviction, though not at all sure how I was going to sneak out a second time.
“Wonderful, until then, milady.” He bowed, tipping his hat.
As I watched him hurry back across the street, a movement from a small balcony above caught my eye, and I saw a woman lean over the ledge, a rug in her hands, shaking out the dirt. She had a mass of blond hair she’d swept up into a loose coil atop her head and from the way her bust shook, with each snap of the rug, it appeared she wore no under-bindings of any sort.
She paused and looked down at the carriage for a moment, before she turned her head as if to answer someone and disappeared back inside.
“Shall I return home, Miss Cartwright?” From above, Deven called down to me.
“Yes, Mr. Mooreland. There has been a slight change in plans.”
I heard a snort of laughter, or perhaps it was the horse.
Chapter 5
I WAS NOT WELL. SINCE LEAVING TOWN, MY STOMACH had been churning to think what would happen if Mr. Rodin changed his mind. By the time we rolled up the farm’s lane, I thought I might lose my stomach.
Aunt Perdita opened the door and stepped onto the front porch. She peered into the cab, a look of concern marring her face. “Sara, my dear. What happened? Your face is positively ashen. I hope you didn’t receive bad news from the Barringtons?”
She helped me from the carriage and my hand moved to my stomach. “I did not make it as far as the Barringtons.” At least that much was the truth. “I am not feeling well. Perhaps if I rest awhile, I shall be well enough to return tomorrow?”
“Of course, dear girl,” she clucked, placing her arm around my shoulder as we walked together to the house.
“Shall I fetch your bags, then, miss?”
Only I detected the subtle mocking tone in Deven’s voice.
“No thank you, Mr. Mooreland, I am confident that by tomorrow I will be able to travel again.” I looked over my shoulder and caught his irritated expression.
“Tell me, what is he like, Sara?” Amelia sat on the edge of my bed, having just brought me a cup of tea that Aunt Perdy ordered me to drink. She said the herbs would ease the stomach pain I was having. Pains she suspected were of a womanly nature. I’d never had them before with my monthly, but the thought of my time with Deven pervaded my thoughts and I hoped the two were not related. I put it out of my mind. “Who…Mr. Rodin? Well, I barely know him.” I sipped my tea, breathing deep the honey scent of the chamomile.
“No, not Mr. Rodin.” She smiled shyly. “Mr. Mooreland.”
“Dev—our Mr. Mooreland?” I choked on my tea and tried not to let complete shock register on my face. “Isn’t he a bit…old for you?”
She had a dreamy far-off look in her eye. “He’s two years older than you, which
would make him only five years older than me.” She frowned, her lip protruding in a childlike pout.
I could not readily determine whether my caution was for her sake or mine, but the idea of the two of them seemed absurd at best. “But Amelia—Mr. Mooreland? There are plenty of younger men out there. Don’t you wish to meet some of them?”
“Some of my friends are already betrothed, and to men much older than Mr. Mooreland!”
“Wealthy men who will care for them, I suspect?” I posed.
“Yes, that is true, but—” She leaned forward and whispered, “Can you imagine the wedding night?” She gave her shoulders a shimmy.
I could not fault her there. “Still, don’t you want to see what’s beyond your own backyard?”
She shrugged. “Unlike you, Sara, I like it here in the country. Of course I love the theater and visiting in town, but I like it here. I think I could be happy staying.”
“And that is what you want more than anything?” I asked. “To be some man’s wife?”
She blinked as though she didn’t understand me. “Of course I want to have a house, where I can raise my children.”
She offered me a dazzling smile.
“I want to have a big family.” She sighed dreamily.
For the first time, I began to see how very different we were in our thinking.
“Well, you may still wish to look around a bit more. I’m not sure Mr. Mooreland is the right man for you.”
“Well, then.” She looked up at me, her bright brown eyes sparkling with an idea. “Maybe I could come be a model, too?”
“Shh!” I cautioned. The poor girl. What was to become of her when I was gone? Aunt Perdy and Uncle Marcus couldn’t afford a formal education. Still there were apprentice positions in town and there was always Lady Barrington’s brood. Though in truth, I would not wish such a fate on someone of Amelia’s delicate constitution. She cried far too easily and was better suited to her dreams than to the reality of governing unruly children. “Oh, Amelia, I’m sure everything is going to work out for the best. Just don’t be too quick to make plans just yet. You are still young.”
“But I’m not a child any longer,” she retorted.
“No,” I assured her. “You are quite the young woman and deserving of a wonderful man who will treat you with respect and cherish you.”
As I patted her hand, I wondered if I would ever arrive at the point where I wanted the same. Did it make me odd, or any less of a woman that I did not yet aspire to such a life? Perhaps I was deluding myself that there was more to experience than only being a wife or mother. But something still niggled at the back of my brain, telling me there was more to life. Either that or I had not yet met the man who would make me want to settle down.
As the carriage pulled up beside the crowd gathering for the Friday evening show at the Globe, I thought of the confident look on Aunt Perdy’s face as she hugged me goodbye. She thought I was on my way to Lady Barrington’s for a few days to see how I fared with her children, when, in truth, I had no idea of where I would lay my head this night if things did not turn out as I’d hoped with Mr. Rodin. I wanted my aunt and uncle to be happy with me, and I did not like manufacturing stories to achieve my purpose, but I simply saw no other way. All I could hope was that once I’d established my fortune and place in society, they would understand my unconventional thinking and welcome me back home.
Deven pulled my two small bags—all that I had in the world—down from the carriage and stood beside me as I searched the crowd for Mr. Rodin.
“Are you certain he’ll show?” Deven asked, his eyes scanning the crowd. “I hope you remember him, because his face is a blur in my mind.”
I rose on tiptoe, checking over the heads of the dozens of people milling about the theater doors. “There he is,” I stated, watching as Thomas Rodin wove around the edge of the crowd. I took a deep breath. At least he had not forgotten.
He removed his bowler the minute he found me, his eyes darting toward Deven and the bags he was holding.
“You can put those bags in my carriage if you like.” He spoke directly to me. “I see you’ve decided to accept my offer.” His smile was most charming.
I took Deven’s arm and we followed Mr. Rodin down the street where his driver waited. His was a lovely coach with leather seats and high-polished black wood, trimmed with gold. Apparently the art world was doing quite well.
Deven placed my bags in the carriage and waited as I climbed in. “Is everything to your approval, Miss Sara?” Deven asked. Mr. Rodin had gone to the other side to climb in.
“Absolutely, Mr. Mooreland. Thank you…for everything.” I studied his face a moment, wondering when or if I would see him again.
“Good day then, Miss Sara. Mr. Rodin.” Deven tipped his tweed cap and turned to leave.
“My love to everyone, Mr. Mooreland. Please let Amelia know I’ll write as soon as I am settled. Give her my love.”
Deven gave me a tight smile, nodded and disappeared into the crowd.
“May I say, Miss Cartwright, you look stunning in that color.” Mr. Rodin sat down beside me, causing me to balance myself to keep from leaning into him. “I think you’ve inspired our first project…I’ll call it Blue Silk. What do you think, my muse?” He smiled and I saw my future.
“Your muse?” I smiled, my stomach feeling as though a cloud of butterflies had taken flight.
“And you must call me Thomas,” he replied, taking my hand and kissing the back of it. “Let me show you where I will make your face known throughout the world.”
“What do you think?” Rodin asked as he lit the kerosene lamps around the room. Beyond the French doors leading to the small balcony, twilight was descending on London. There was the stench of the river mingling with the sharp smell of something in the studio. I wrinkled my nose and heard Thomas’s laughter.
“That’s turpentine, Sara. A scent that you will get used to. Come, take a look.” He ushered me over to an easel. On it stood a wood frame covered in fabric. Beside that was a small table with an array of pots of paint and several crockery jars holding a larger variety of paintbrushes than I’d ever seen in my life. I reached out to touch the canvas and he caught my wrist.
“Nothing touches my canvas except me.”
His eyes were steady and it took a moment to realize the gravity of my near mistake. I nodded.
“Otherwise, feel free to explore at will. I have a small library downstairs. I believe you mentioned that you read. Any of the volumes are available at your leisure, when you aren’t working.” He smiled and continued as if nothing had happened. “There are three bedrooms and a bath down the hall. The kitchen is over there—” he pointed to the corner of the large studio room “—through the butler’s pantry.” He turned in a circle as if observing his domain. “We took out a wall dividing this room to allow for the light from both sets of balcony doors. I quite often entertain the brotherhood—at strange hours of the night, you should be warned. Do you cook, by chance?”
“A little,” I replied, a bit unsure about what I was getting into.
“Scones?”
“Well, yes, as a matter of fact, my aunt…”
“Splendid! I’ll make sure that you have everything you need to make those straight away.”
“Are you hiring me to cook or to model, Thomas?” I asked. Cooking and cleaning were not what I had in mind.
He cocked his eyebrow in question. “Sara. Perhaps I didn’t make myself clear. I entertain my brothers, sometimes with little notice, and as you might guess to hire a full-time cook would seem a waste. The brotherhood thrives on a communal sharing policy. Therefore, your talents in cooking, as well as modeling, will be utilized. Besides, you wouldn’t want my cooking, I assure you. You may also, from time to time, be lent to other artists in the group,” he stated matter-of-factly as he poured himself a glass of port.
He held the bottle up in silent invitation and I shook my head, offering a polite smile, which didn’t seem
to bother him a bit.
“I am delighted to see your bags, assuming then, that you will be staying in residence?”
He paused and waited for my response. “I won’t take up much room.”
He chuckled. “My dear, you’ll have your own room. My former model—” he paused to take a sip of port “—as it happens, has left an opening. You’ll take her room and share the bath with whomever happens to be here.”
“Do you live here?” I blurted out before I realized what I’d said.
“For the most part, yes,” he replied.
He was apparently less concerned than I about my forward question. I took him up on his offer to explore, walking slowly around the perimeter of the room, studying the pictures on the wall and the artifacts from countries far away. “Do you travel much, Thomas?”
“Me? No, I’m rather a homebody, I fear. Most of those trinkets have come as gifts from my brothers and my peers. I have some very well-traveled friends who find their inspiration in learning more about the world beyond these walls. I like my creature comforts, I guess, preferring to stay right here and focus on the person I’m painting to find my inspiration.”
I found a stack of canvas sketches leaning against the wall and bent to thumb through them, surprised to discover the sensuality displayed by the models. One sketch was of a woman partially reclined on a chaise longue, with nothing but a throw covering her lower half. She held a feather in her hand and her gaze was fixed on the artist. He’d captured every detail of her full breasts, the slope of her belly, the swell of her hip. I was mesmerized by how her sexuality came through on the canvas. “Who is she?” I asked, sensing him now standing at my side.
“One of my very first models. Her name was Cozette. She was an acquaintance of my aunt. A lovely girl, but she harbored a great many secrets.”
“Where is she now?”
He chuckled. “Making some gent enormously happy, I imagine. The woman possessed a fiery passion.”
The Master & the Muses Page 17
